


Paint My Soul

by agirlnamedtruth



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Body Paint, Body Worship, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/pseuds/agirlnamedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Porn Battle XII</p><p>Prompt: Amy/Vincent; calm, ginger, colours, endless, night, souls</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint My Soul

When he’d asked to paint her, Amy had jumped at the chance, it was Vincent Van Gogh after all, who could pass that up. She hesitated for a while when he asked her to be naked but she decided she wasn’t that shy and The Doctor would be asleep by now, so she agreed. He led her down on a sheet, surrounded by paint pots but there wasn’t a paintbrush or canvas in sight. It was only when he dipped three of his fingers in yellow paint that she caught on. He wanted to paint _her_.

He lifted one of her ankles in his clean hand and painted the sole of her foot in thick paint, making her giggle and squirm.

“You’ll need to be stiller than that or you’ll be a mess.” He waved his hand emphatically and spots of yellow landed on her belly. He took the other ankle and painted her other sole, this time she bit her lip and tried to think of something else.

He took orange paint to each of her toes and the front of her foot, blurring it with the yellow that had reached up the sides and back of her ankle. He smoothed the thick paint up her calf, still orange, unbroken from the tip of her toes, up the line of leg until he reached her knee. Then he dipped his fingers back in the yellow, tainting it this time. He held her leg in the air, yellow now clinging to her calf muscles until all her lower leg was coloured, being sure to slightly blur the colours together in the right places. He repeated the process on her other leg, focusing twice as hard to make it symmetrical.

“May I have your hand?” he asked holding out the palm of his own. She obliged, watching as he turned her hand over and turned her palm yellow. The back of her hand he made orange, leaving her fingernails spotless, a few minutes later the pattern had made its way to her elbow, very similar to her calves.

Her other arm took longer because he insisted on leaning over her body, rather than moving his paint pots. As a consequence, paint of both colours added to the drips on her belly until she looked like she had very colourful chicken pox. She expected him to stop at her elbows like her had at her knees but he kept going up to her shoulders and her neck, spreading her hair around her like it was in water. He left her collarbone and underarms untouched, returning to her legs. He traced only the barest lines of yellow, before muttering something to her that sounded strangely like “How far does your leg bend.” 

Before she could react, he was pushing her leg up, nearly obscenely high, her muscles burning at the strain. She blushed when she realised that this position left her fully exposed, something she’d been careful to avoid until now. He was absorbed in smothering the back of her thigh in orange paint, making it curve around her leg, so she brushed off her embarrassment and took a few deep breaths, calming herself. He did the same with yellow on the front, so it looked like the colours were wrapped around each other in a loose spiral around her leg. To repeat this on the other leg, he sat between her legs, calf resting on his shoulder, making his shirt dirty. From an outside perspective this would look very suspect, very intimate. And it did feel intimate to Amy but in a different way. He left the inside of her thighs bare and she was almost disappointed. He took yellow to the curves of her waist, painting her small hourglass figure like melted butter. He trailed orange across her belly, in a pattern that seemed random to her but was meticulous to Vincent. Her muscles clenched, his fingers slightly ticklish and making something deep in her stomach curl in anticipation. Her ribs turned yellow and orange, alternating and blurring together. She opened her eyes when she heard water splash, he was washing his hands. She made to sit up, thinking he was done, although about a third of her was untouched, maybe he was being polite, leaving the delicate places alone.

“You’re not finished yet.” He motioned for her to lie back and she breathed a sigh of relief, not sure why but she didn’t want to be finished, she wanted to lay here forever, feeling his hands run over her body, making her feel like the most important thing in the world.

He drenched both his hands in red paint, thick as blood but much brighter. He paused for a second as though asking for permission; she nodded, tacitly agreeing to anything he would do. He motioned for her to lift her arms and she did, tying not to let wet paint touch her hair. He painted her underarms in red, running over her collarbone to the underside of her breast on each side with his fingertips. She giggled and he let her, smiling indulgently. He painted his own palms and cupped her breasts leaving hand prints on them. Amy considered making a joke about being caught red handed but she couldn’t concentrate enough to string the words together. He dipped a finger in orange, filling the gaps around his hand prints, darker than the base orange because it was tinted with red. The knot in her stomach was growing tighter, her whole body tense. He trailed a line of red down her breast bone, down her stomach, blending it through yellow and orange he’d put there earlier, making it look almost messy but still beautiful. She thought she’d soon burst with desperation so she tried to distract herself in conversation.

“So what are you painting... on me?” Her voice was strained and breathless.

“Your soul on your skin, so I can see it with my eyes and not just my mind.” He painted the insides of her thighs, unbearably close to touching her where she wanted without actually doing so. “Your soul, like your hair is fiery. It’s reflected in your temperament. You’re beautiful but dangerous. A man could fall in love with you, consumed by you, engulfed by your presence but burned beyond belief if rejected by you. Your hair is told to be a hint of your passion, your delicate balance and what yearns to break out of you. People say the same of me but they call it mad,” Vincent sighed, his eyes never leaving Amy’s.

“It’s just called ginger where I come from,” Amy said, realising she’d been holding her breath and letting it out raggedly.

“Then I’m lucky you have travelled to me and not I to you.” He smiled, what would have been cheesy any other time seemed heartfelt in this situation. He painted his palms one more and gripped her hips, squeezing and lifting her slightly off the floor, leaving another set of red hand prints. He coated his hand again, looking her in the eye as he did so.

“You might want to prepare yourself.” He raised her legs up with his drier hand, still leaving smudges of red and nudged apart her knees, sitting between them one more, this looking directly at her exposed sex. She gasped as he smoothed down the sparse hair she had, too close to pleasure but still miles away.

She cried out beside herself when he finally ran his hand over her clit, smoothly but firmly, the thick paint making her tingle and sensations singing through her body like the fire that was painted on her skin. She came within two minutes, hands grasping at the sheet she was led on, suddenly grateful for the hour or more of teasing built up. She arched her back and felt how the paint had made her skin feel tighter but for those glorious seconds she was free of her skin, feeling like the being that Vincent had described to her.

“There she is,” Vincent whispered.


End file.
